


a room by the sea

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Imprisonment, Incest, It happens, Mutilation, Sex, Slapping, Sort of sad, blame GRRM, dubcon, morally questionable activities abound, mostly - Freeform, you cant prove it DIDNT happen this way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-24 17:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Jaime comes home.*marked "explicit" for chapter three only.





	1. Chapter 1

“You look,” said his sister, “half-dead.”

Jaime sat down next to her. It was good to feel a cushion under his ass again. “ _Half-dead_ is a vast improvement, since I have been _mostly_ dead for a month.”

She sniffed. “I suppose we should be thankful you’re alive.”

”I suppose you should.” No need to tell her that he was still weighing the options.

 _You need to live,_ the big wench had told him.

 _Why?_ It didn’t matter, he didn’t care, he was past caring, out of his mind with rage and fever and grief.

 _Revenge,_ she said.

Cersei glanced at where his hand had been — the stump, the bandage, the sling — and shuddered, delicate as any high-born lady. She used the movement to edge herself a bit further away. “I am sure you were brave.”

“Completely. No one is braver than I.” He had screamed like a child. He‘d promised himself he wouldn’t yell, it didn’t matter what they did to him, he _wouldn’t yell;_ and then as soon as he saw the blade coming down he did it anyway.

She picked at the gilt embroidery on her sleeve, not looking up. “Did you cry?”

He shook his head. No, he hadn’t. Not then. “I wanted to piss myself, but there simply wasn’t time.”

“At least it was quick,” she said: and Jaime had to laugh.

“Yes, a half-second long enough to change the course of my life. All those candles I’m sure that you left at the feet of the Warrior helped a great deal —”

"Do you know what Father said, when he heard?”

”I cannot imagine.”

“He said: _Now he will have to marry_.” She raised her head to study him. “He has someone in mind, I’m sure. A bird went out. Not that he told _me_ what he’s thinking, when does anyone ever tell me things like that? I am only his _daughter_.”

Jaime reached for her; he used the wrong hand, and swore.

She pushed at him and stood up. “Father is right, you know. You’ll never be fit for the Kingsguard after this.”

It was a cold knife, cold, and she knew where to slide the blade. “The vows are for life. I didn’t agree to serve only until I was injured, it’s not—”

“This is not a mere _injury_. You are maimed. Knights have been killed for less.”

He went still. “Mercy killings happen, yes. On the _battlefield_ , Cersei. Not in the queen’s bedroom. And it’s not a fate that befalls lords of any consequence, much less —”

“You cannot even _write_ with your left, can you?”

“— the king’s father!”

She struck him across the face.

He raised his right arm in reflex but had no hand to stop the blow. 

They stared at each other.

”Beg pardon,” said Jaime, one cheek gone red. “I sometimes forget that I am merely _uncle_ to his Grace.”

”Do try to remember.” She laughed lightly. “It’s not as though a confession would do anything but please the high septon. And I find him quite _insufferably_ smug as he is. Almost as bad as you.”

“It might interest more people than that. Father would enjoy the story of why his grandchildren all have such remarkably green eyes.”

“Do you think so? I doubt it. He thinks only of our family, he will do nothing that risks the line of succession for the children ... Though it might motivate him to find some _mercy_ in his heart for you.”

“Would you cry?” said Jaime. “Cersei, did you cry when you heard what happened to me?” He caught her by the waist and pulled her in, and she let herself be drawn. He kissed her. “Tell me you cried.”

“I cried,” she said, fumbling at him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you — no, let me! I want to ...”

And she wanted it too. He could feel it between them, smell it on her skin. _Too long, it has been too long_. It always was too long between times, even when they were children and Jaime only needed a few minutes before he could begin again.

She sat down and pulled him close against her, her nails digging into his skin, her breath thick and heavy

but he touched her with the wrong hand, the missing hand, and she drew back. “No,” she said. “No. Not like that, with your filthy ... no. I won’t.”

“What?” She couldn’t leave him like this. “Cersei. Wait.”

”Out,” she said: and her voice shook. “Leave my rooms, guardsman. I am not in need of further protection tonight.” 

* 

  
In his own rooms then Jaime slept, he slept: and he dreamt the world was illuminated by wildfire, and all his pain was still before him.

He watched the sword come down — slow this time, glinting green with the reflected flames — and he had time to run, but 

_Coward!_ said his twin: and so Jaime submitted to the blade, bleeding out without a single noise.

He woke up silently weeping, and afraid, because he was alone.

The room was large and dark and silent; the heavy shutters had been draw and latched against the night air, hangings draped over the walls, and a skin rug warmed the floor.

The fire was out, not merely banked but permitted to burn low and die. Only a few embers breathed.

He couldn’t remember giving that order. Had someone given him dreamwine, strongwine, poppy ... no, he would know if they had, it made his mouth dry and his mind vacant, and he was neither of those things.

The regular wine, then, watered as always. Strange that it affected him so, he was never as much a drinker as Tyrion, but maybe all his tolerance was gone after a year in a cell —

— a cell. He had ordered the ugly wench put in a cell, and forgot her completely in his haste to see Cersei and restart his life.

It would be cold for her. He knew that well enough. Her window would face the pits if she were lucky and the water if she were not, and as the sun disappeared so did the warmth in either case. 

She would have no fire, no blankets. No candles or conversation. Only dark and silence and slow waiting for the end of it.

He shut his eyes.

They had been allowed no fire, even after Vargo had taken his hand. It seemed ridiculous even at the time, he remembered thinking that, even when pain and sickness drew a blank over much of the rest. 

He remembered too that someone had gone to tie him up, and how Vargo shrieked with laughter. _The wortht thing he can do ith fall into a puddle and drown._ So they had redoubled the knots on Brienne, giving her a fresh kick for good measure, and left them alone to sleep in the mud. 

He knew she was watching him and did not care.

 _Kingslayer?_ Pause. _Jaime?_

He opened an eye at that.

_Don’t die._

He shut his eye again. As if he’d take orders from a woman, or from anyone really but his twin, his Cersei, _I have to get home  
to you ... _but he ended up eating the food Brienne told him to eat and trying to rest as she told him to rest, and when the cold came and he couldn’t stop shaking, she shifted til they lay close together, keeping warm.

 _You smell like shit,_ he had told her.

She didn’t smile. Did she ever smile? He had never seen her smile. Not that it would help her appearance _. That smell is you,_ she said: and she was right.

Not a very pleasant memory. So why did it make him push back the covers and pull on his clothes?

The walk was long, seeming longer in the dark, and eerie with familiarity: he had spent many nights here on duty in his early years. 

All his time wasted, all wasted, and his skill gone ...

The guard called out a who-goes-there when he saw Jaime, and a different formality when he recognized who it was. “Ser my lord, all is well here.”

“Is she being treated well?”

“We don’t mistreat prisoners, my lord.”

“Of course not.” Unless it served a purpose. But no one was very interested in conquering Tarth. “I apologize for misspeaking. Now leave us alone.”

The guard acceeded with stiff grace. Jaime watched him go, a grey shadow only when he moved between the torchlights, returning to clarity again a moment later; then he tapped on the door. “Brienne?”

No reply. Was she asleep? Unconscious? He wished he had gotten the keys, but that would be a different sort of argument and not one he cared for little sparrows to carry to Cersei. This visit was folly enough. “Brienne, it’s me.”

Scuffling. Rattling. And her astonished voice: “Kingslayer?”

He grit his teeth. The stupid wench always made him regret helping her. Why did he keep doing it? “Jaime.”

Hesitation in her voice, and something else. “What are you doing here? I thought ...”

“I know what you thought.” He didn’t want to talk about that. “Are they ... have you been injured, beaten? Do you have food? I know a cell is not the most pleasant place to spend a few nights, but these are better than some others I have seen ...”

“I am not hurt.”

He couldn’t think of what to say. The torches reminded him of his dream and somewhere there was the maddening sound of water dripping and this had been a mad impulse, Cersei was right, he never thought ahead. “Do ... does your window look towards the fighting pits?”

“No. It faces the sea.” A pause. “I only see air and water.”

“Shame. The pit cells are warmer.”

“I don’t mind. I prefer it here.”

“The cold?” Jaime was cold. He must have lost a considerable amount of flesh, all his clothes were baggy, and the stones seemed to leak their ice into his bones, impossible to escape. He would step into a fire if he could. He shivered.

“I prefer the water. The sea. My — my window on Tarth, my bedroom window, it looked out over the water too.”

“A different ocean.” And a different color, so the stories said. Was it blue as her eyes? He wanted to see them again: no. But at least he could hear her voice. “Wench — Brienne — speak.”

He had used the wrong words, ordering her about; he could almost seen lift her chin with that stubborn expression, like a horse refusing to drink. But she only said — “What shall I talk of, my lord?”

“My name is Jaime, and you know it. Tell me of ... whatever you like. Tell me of Tarth if you want.”

So she did.

She had no gift for stories, everything came out in a jumble — the weather, the sunlight, the cheap old nicked swords she hid in her bedroom, what a hard arm her old septa had, when she found Brienne at such unladylike games.

Jaime tried and failed to imagine being whipped for wanting to be a knight. “You did it anyway?”

“Yes. Always. It was all I wanted. The boys never let me spar, and I fought them so they would give in. I kept losing.” A choked laugh. “So then I was embarrassed _and_ couldn’t find a practice partner. But I didn’t want to fight them, either. I never liked to hurt people.”

“You do know that battles are mostly about hurting people ... nevermind, we won’t argue. Go on.”

“Father told me if I needed to hit someone, I needed to do it hard. _Make them regret fighting you,_ he said. So I did.”

He believed it. And he wanted to stay, to hear more. To believe more. He wished he could see her eyes. “Brienne?”

A pause. “Yes?”

“Nothing. Only — I must go back. The guards change soon, I think; it must be dog’s watch or later.”

“Near on it, not passed. I can hear them calling the hours along the wall. Jaime, why ...”

He didn’t answer for a long moment: too long. He heard her say again _Jaime?_ and _My lord?_ and then a long sigh and nothing more, assuming probably that he had left without waiting for a response.

He didn’t know what to say — how to explain to her, how to say what he didn’t know properly himself? _Cersei struck me,_ he wanted to tell her, and _I know how it is here, when you go too long without hearing a human voice._

At last he said: “I dreamt of you.”

It was too little and too much. He said, cutting off the words she was stammering out: “I will come again. Try to rest.”

And that time he did leave.

_One two three_ torches, and now he stopped and looked back and could no longer pick out which door among them all belonged to her. _Four five six._ At _thirteen_ his shoulders dropped down (when had he started slumping and shrinking?), and at _twenty-six_ he could breathe again.

Under the thirty-fifth torch in the long corridor, he found the guard — a young man with sleep visible on his face, though he straightened neatly when he saw Jaime approach. “My lord commander—“

“The tall wench, the maid Brienne. Has she any sort of covering in there, any blankets or furs?”

“No, my lord.”

“Fetch her one. Nothing rat-eaten or crawling with fleas.”

“Yes, my lord. At once.”

“And send a raven to ...” He stopped.

”Ser?”

 _To her father,_ he had wanted to say: but what mad impulse was that? “Send a bird to Lord Bolton, at Riverrun. Tell him I apologize sincerely for his recent losses, and he may apply to the treasury for a new fighting bear, soon as his maesters find the potion to regrow a hand.”

”... Yes, ser. At once.”

”Find the wench a set of decent bedcovers first,” said Jaime. “Be quick about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “mostly dead” is still partly alive!! 
> 
> and Brienne would be a marvelous Dread Pirate Roberts, far better than Jaime “have I told you all my secrets yet well grab a chair and hang on tight” Lannister.
> 
> *
> 
> “I dreamt of you,” Jaime tells Brienne after rescuing her from the bear pits, when he meant to say “I spent all night dreaming about you naked and holding my sword and what the hell are you saying ‘symbolism’ for? this was a totally innocent dream about your naked body”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know what happens here in the cells?”
> 
> “Almost nothing, if they are anything like that exciting year I spent in the northern dungeons. There were days I hoped for some torture just for a change of scene.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written thru to 08 July 2019.

He brought down a candle next time, and something to light it, and a nice fat coin for the guard’s silence.

This was the same young man as before, and Jaime noticed a few pimples were visible around the edge of his face when he closed the coin in his fist, mumbling something and walking away fast, embarrassed.

Jaime watched him go with a curious feeling that was not quite envy, not quite scorn. Had he ever been that young?

Probably not.

He called out to let the wench know he was there and settled down on the floor. It was cold as hell and somewhere there was the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh. Charming. “I sent Loras to visit you. He’ll come tomorrow. Or whenever he fucking well gets around to it, I suppose. Curly headed little shit.”

“You shouldn’t malign him so. Ser Loras is a true knight, and—“

“You only say that because he was diddling your precious Renly.”

She set her jaw. “He never spoke ill of me, nor allowed others to do so. And he loved the King. As a knight, but also ... also as a friend. He wept when Renly died.”

Arguing with an ugly wench in a prison cell was surely beneath a Lannister’s dignity. “Here. Take this.”

“What is it?”

Of course she wouldn’t be able to see, but he hadn’t thought of that. “Candle and flint.”

She took the proffered and lit it, rather neatly. The little room bloomed with light, at least on her side. The hallway remained dim and smokey.

Jaime didn’t like the dark, not here like this, and he didn’t like having a door between them either. “Take this too.”

Again she asked what it was.

“It is bread, you ridiculously suspicious woman. Only bread.” He had his head down, trying to tear it to pieces. The process was damnably slow with one hand. “I thought to bring you a meat pie from supper — we had eels — but it might dirty my pockets.” And he had no way to steal it unobtrusively. The servants were Cersei’s, replaced while he tarried away from home, and undoubtedly one of the little rats would squeak. “I never much liked eel. I always think I can feel them wriggling as they go down.”

Bread was easier. And this was good brown stuff rich with nuts and seeds. Traveling food. He liked it ...

Holding the loaf between his knees and pulling off a piece small enough to pass through to her took so much concentration that he did not realize at once she hadn’t answered. “If this displease my lady, I could go back for the eels.”

“Why are you being kind to me?”

“Would you prefer I send in men with whips?”

“No.”

“Then don’t complain.”

For a wonder, she did not.

They ate together awhile in a companionable silence.

“This is very fresh bread,” said the Maid, with her mouth full. He’d never seen her so impolite — nor apparently so hungry.

How long was it since she ate? He would have the guards all executed and their heads stuck along the road. “Nothing but the best for a Lannister prisoner. Careful with your teeth, there is a gold dragon inside it. Wen— _Brienne_. Didn’t they give you any food?”

“I didn’t trust it.”

“Why not?” He passed over more bread and she ate that too. “No one is looking to poison you.”

She did not answer at once; she took the time to chew more slowly now. Searching for that gold piece, he assumed. But she wore an odd look — odder by far on her particular face, barely visible as it was through the low, narrow slit used to pass food. 

He watched her. 

The candlelight was kind. She looked ... not _pretty_ , Brienne would never be pretty, it was impossible. Still it brought out something in her expression that was usually hidden.

And they’d been like this often enough, hadn’t they? Darkness, and firelight, and a wall between them.

Bread gone, she chewed on her mouth. “Do you know what happens in here?”

“Almost nothing, if I remember rightly that exciting year in the northron cells. There were days I hoped for some torture just for a change of scene.”

“No. I mean ... What is the guard’s name? Do you know if he haunts the brothels, or is he shy, or maybe he prefers boys? What songs does he whistle when he’s happy?”

Cersei would know — no, she would not, but Varys would know and Cersei would pluck out those questions one by one, like errant hairs, if she needed the answer.

Brienne said: “He took money to betray you. If he does it again ...”

“His neck will end up uncomfortably stretched, yes. Or maybe I will honor him with a long visit to the Wall. You thought I would allow you to be poisoned? There really is no loyalty left in the world.”

“I apologize for my hard words, ser. You did not allow poison in my food. You only _allowed_ me to be arrested on the street and brought here and stripped and fondled and forgotten.” She gulped. “I do appreciate you remembering, and the visits, but ...”

“Stripped?”

“My armor, my weapons. My clothes.”

“You do not appear to be naked.” He would have noticed.

“They returned the clothes, less a few stags.”

“I’m sure our treasury can bear the restitution. Brienne. Did they hurt you? You are still—” He stopped.

She flushed. “Yes, ser.”

 _Ser_ , again. Jaime ate one last bit of his share of bread, and gave the rest to her deep-set eyes. “What will you do after you get out of here?”

She stared.

“Brienne?”

“You mean to let me go?”

She still expected him to keep her jailed. _Loyalty_ , indeed. She thought he would have a trial for murder, maybe, or simply execute her ... He considered how her head would like on a pike and wondered if even the crows could bear to see it. “Did you kill Renly?”

“No.”

“Then ... then I have no reason to keep you. No more than a day or two, at any rate. I need you to speak to Loras ... And what then?Tell me what you will do.”

“Tell me what _you_ will do.”

He was staring. When had he started to stare at her? _They stripped me,_ she said. _They took my armor and my sword._

And she’d asked a question. “What I will ... what do you mean?”

“Your day. Your time. Tell me how a Captain of the Kingsguard spends his hours.”

“I ...Breakfast. Then writing practice, because my letterforms are worse than To— than a child of eight. The rest of the day is ... whatever needs to be done. Meetings, often ...”

“Do you often see the Queen? Queen Regent, I mean.”

“Cersei?” He went to rub his hand through his hair and ended up hitting his forehead instead. How deeply habit ran. He wanted to laugh it off, say something clever, but the wench wore no expression he could read: neither pity nor derision. “Um. Sometimes.”

“Is — is it true?”

“Is what true.”

She spoke low: as if the rock itself listened. “You said so, when Lady Catelyn ... and then again on the boat, with Ser Cleos, you said —“

“I know what I said.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Jaime shut his eyes; suddenly he was incalculably tired. “Believe what you will, wench. You would anyway.”

“But —“

“Give over the candle, and the tinderbox, please; you’ve no way to explain its presence.”

— and he had one more moment of her luminous eyes watching him before she obeyed, and all the world went dark.

He shoved the things back into his bag and stood and left.

*

The queen regent stood before her own window, looking out over the valley; she wore a grey gown embroidered all over with leaves and vines, a choking forest, and she did not turn when he entered the room. “Did you slept well?” she said.

“Yes,” stupidly. “That is, no. I could not find sleep a long while.”

 _You speak too quick, you try too hard to be clever and instead prove you are not,_ their father had told him, usually accompanied by a cuff to the head. _Speak slow. Let the words come to you. You are my son! You can bloody well make these people wait._

Cersei was not _people_ and Cersei did not like to wait. She approached him. “It seems odd that you would leave your bed to go searching for sleep.”

“Sometimes a walk helps a mind rest, when it is unsettled.”

“Oh yes. Walks are marvelous, aren’t they? Simply charming. And you took such a nice long one. All the way to the ocean cells, and all the way back.”

He said nothing.

“When will you learn that a man who will sell himself for one coin will do it even more quickly for a bigger one? No, you won’t learn that. A man will never be a whore to other men. And yet they think every woman will lay down happily if they can only make her pockets jingle when they’re taking her. So. Are you paying her well, this new whore of yours?”

“My — who?”

“Don’t touch me! I mean that slut you put in the tower —“

“Brienne?” He laughed, sliding his hand further around her waist. Beautiful sister, sweet sister. “Have you _seen_ her?”

“No. Do I need to? I know enough. She pretends to be a knight —“

“She does not.”

“— and she _stole_ you, Jaime. We were going to get you back and she stole you and she lost your hand.”

“You had a year and more while I mouldered in filth. Was that not long enough for a rescue attempt?”

Her mouth tightened. “Don’t be like this,” she said: and she elegantly sank to her knees in front of him, the gown pooling around her like water. Her hand ran up along the inside of his leg, scratching lightly. “I only want what’s best for you. For us, Jaime. It’s us, you and I, always only us ...”

He thought of Brienne, alone in the dark.

“Don’t,” he said.

She did it anyway: but by then Jaime had changed his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as we have have learned from certain British bakers, eel pie is goddamn delicious.
> 
> *
> 
> beautiful boys always remind me of the line from Cyrano: “His brain may be as curly as his hair, you know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wench?  
> Mmm, she said.  
> Brienne, are you still a maid?  
> She shook her head.  
> Good, said Jaime, sleepy and sated. I was afraid it was too good a dream to be true.
> 
> *
> 
> sex. there is sex in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 8-10 July 2019, when i was very ill  
> & 12 July when i was ... somewhat less sick

He woke with the smell of Cersei on his skin _(jasmine, she smelled of jasmine and rose)_ and for the instant before his eyes opened he was drowsing in her bed while King Robert was off hunting. He chased stag and skirts, it made no difference to Cersei: being alone was the key. 

_I missed you,_ he wanted to say, and opened his eyes to tell her so.

She wasn’t there.

And oh, his head hurt terribly — and it was long past daybreak — and he hadn’t seen Brienne at all, all that night and a day more. _Give me the candle_ he’d told her, and she had done it. Had she been in the dark all that long time?

He rubbed his face.

Some bird had seen them, that was the problem. Maybe Cersei had sent a little sparrow of her own. The window _,_ he thought, but it was far too small to fit through, especially for a wench as large as that. But anyone could pay a dragon to the guard and borrow a key. Greet Brienne with a bowl and a knife and a long silent fall into nothing.

Who would complain over one less ugly face in the world? No one feared the little lordling of Tarth, and his sweet sister was no fool to be taken in with talk of sapphires. 

Poison, maybe. There were poisons that could take days, there would poisons that would leave you half-alive while your skin rotted off and your mind stayed intact.

Or they could simply remove pieces, a bit there and another here, until she fit through the window after all.

He thought of Brienne alive and hurting and begging to die.

 _Live,_ she’d told him ages before. She'd scorned him, she'd scolded him, she'd all but spit in his face with rage. _Live, you coward. You must stay alive to take revenge._

He thought of what revenge might look like, if she were dead.

Then he called for a bath and a pitcher of wine and scrubbed himself all over until he was rawly pink and wrinkled too, drinking fast and thinking slow.

Nothing could happen during the day. Everything happened at night. _Everything nice happens at night_ , he had told her once. _It's getting dark, we could make this trip far more interesting._

She'd jerked so hard on his rope that he stumbled on his feet, and then he smiled at her too. Just to be annoying.

If she had lived this long, if she had lived through him and the bear and Renly and whatever-else in her life, she would damned well live a little longer.

If she was alive this morning (he was fighting Bronn in the sun and tripped over his damned feet trying to cross the wrong direction, he could not stop trying to use the missing hand), _if she is still alive_

If she was still alive this morning she will not die today.

If if if.

“You are not paying a bit of attention to your footwork,” said the ever-annoying Bronn, stepping back. 

“And yet you’re cheerful, ser. Why would that be? Sparring with such a poor partner.”

“I’m paid either way, aren’t I? Maybe the worse you do, the sooner you’ll call off. Mind, it’s not that I don’t enjoy the sight of your pretty face while you’re furious and wanting to hack me to pieces with a blunt weapon. Only that my pockets are heavy with funds and this isn’t my favorite sort of sweaty exercise. If you catch the drift of my words, ser.”

Jaime caught it.

He returned to his rooms to bathe again and rest awhile. Sleep, and dream.

_There are different armors for different battles, and wars can be won over a dinner as much as a battlefield_ \-- yes, that was the sort of stupid thing Bronn said.

How Lord Tywin would have scorned him, and scorned Jaime too for thinking a common sellsword had anything to say of value. Listening to the smallpeople was not a _Lannister_ dynamic.

Although.

Bronn was a mouthy pain in the ass with no real value to anyone but himself, and he had lived a good long time that way. A man like that, who couldn't hold his tongue and hadn't yet lost it? he might be on to something. 

So Jaime took the advice and a bottle of strongwine and a few other things, and went whistling down the long hall to the ocean-side cells. It was a loud night and a full moon: even through the walls he heard the waves crash and draw back, crash and draw back. He wasn’t certain that he liked it. It seemed to bring the tense sick feeling of unknown even closer.

_The hardest part of a battle is the waiting beforehand,_ he'd told Cersei.

 _You're afraid?_ she said. _You?_

 _No._ It wasn't fear exactly, nor anticipation; it was the sound of the ocean reaching out before it drew back, and he did not know what would be taken or left.

The pimpled guard greeted him with some nerves, as well he might.

Jaime only smiled. “Let’s forget the past awhile and think to the future. You like girls, lad?”

Well, of course he did.

“There’s nothing like a wench, is there? Ahh ... the look of a girl on a night like this, wearing moonlight and not much else. Bet you’d rather be with them than standing here. And so would I. Were I a younger man ...” Jaime shook his head, solemn. “Septons will tell you that time once flown is gone forever, and well I know it for true. There’s no point in mourning the days gone and lost.”

The guard agreed, looking even younger and more forlorn.

Jaime considered him. “You know, I brought this to share with a friend. But I'm thinking now you need a friend more than I do." He hefted the bottle. "The wine too. First time's always a bit nervy."

"I've had a girl before!"

"And now you'll have another, won't you? Would a stag make it easier? Have two. Youth is sweet." He slipped the silver coins into the waiting hand. "Just one more thing yet before you go, lad. I'll need those keys."

Soon as the boy was gone, the fear came back.

All his remaining fingers tapped on the door. “Wench?” The sea howled in reply. “Lady Brienne, I mean.”

The noise of someone fumbling in the dark; then she found the food-slot and reached a hand through. "I'll light the candle." It was her own long-fingered hand, pale and dirty. Her voice. Her disdain. He allowed himself a moment of gratitude. 

“Move back. I'm going to open the door." The key was large and the tumbler stiff with disuse; he wished again for his other hand.

Pushing it open was easier, though it dragged; she had obeyed him and stood back against the wall, as there was nowhere else to go. "Bit smaller than my cell," said Jaime, and he pushed the door closed again. 

"What--"

“There’s flint and steel and wax, in the bag.” He was fixing the key at his hip, no easy task in the dark, and could not see her except shape, shadow, dim. "Clear away a space first or you'll set the room afire --”

— but she was doing it before he spoke, the rushes hoarse against the stone. And then the chip-chip of steel, scraping one spark and another until the wick caught, flared, stayed.

She held it out to him. "Ser."

And was the room lit by the flame or her smile?

"Thank you." He took it to the corner for safety, dripping wax down on the stone until the candle would stick in it and stand upright; then he turned around.

Brienne was still there.

It was her. Her hair her face her own _self,_ not wearing armor now but a thin shapeless shift that did not fit and did not suit and barely covered the necessary, and she'd been like this for half a week in a freezing cell with no friendly words and no idea of what was coming next? _Brienne._

She looked away — looked down to his missing hand, a stump only tonight, and frowned.

He didn’t like a frown on her. “You look well.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t say it to be thanked. I was afraid you were — I expected to find you ...”

Bruised, bloody, beaten, gone: he couldn't say any of that.

“No one has harmed me.”

Not yet. “You are still a maid?”

“ _Yes._ Jaime, you came back. I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, and laughed. “I was angry with you.”

“Because of what I said? Wanting to know the truth?”

"For ...” For making him feel like she was the same as everyone else, desperate for nothing more than to find a weak spot and topple over the monstrous Lannisters. “For wanting ...” 

_Is it true?_ she had asked him, knowing the answer and asking anyway, as if she'd understand him if he could only explain.

He wanted to explain. He wanted to reach out. Say what he wanted, take what he wanted. "Most people prefer lies. Comfortable lies."

"Lies aren't _comfortable,"_ said the wench, predictably. "Or they shouldn't be."

" _Should be_ and _is_ don't often keep company. I myself have been lying all evening. And you have too, I think. Tilt your face -- yes, that's the annoyed expression I came down this long, uncomfortable distance to see. Excellent. I do hate when people fail to meet my expectations and, Brienne, it happens so often with most people that I forget it never happens with you --"

"You wouldn't need to visit at all if you hadn't had me imprisoned in the first place."

"You didn't question me. You do know what we agreed to lie about."

"No, I --"

He kissed her.

Brienne stepped away.

She was frowning, and he didn’t like that; she said his name in a tone that sounded like a complaint and he liked _that_ even less.

“That,” he told her, “was _barely_ a kiss. If you want to start arguing about propriety, we’re going to need to do a lot more than that.”

She huffed. “Propriety indeed. As if you know what that means. I am not some tavern-girl --"

It seemed very _proper_ that he kiss her again, and this time it lasted longer. The taste changed in his mouth into something darker, and when he shifted back a little she chased him and clung to him, hands tight on his tunic like she'd been frozen.

Maybe he had, too; it was hard to move away. “You make me ashamed of myself." He _was_ ashamed -- Tyrion would laugh -- _In a prison cell, Jaime? really?_

But shame was a familiar feeling and a well-traveled descent. His feet knew the way.

And then there was Brienne.

She had a dusting of color around the tops of her cheeks and she still held on to him. “If your honor troubles you, the solution is to _do better_.” A pause. “Though you don’t seem to want that.”

“There are other options besides _honor_ , lady Brienne. You ignore them at your peril. For example: I could become even worse. Give up on honor entirely. Take you right here on the floor.”

“Don’t joke about things like that.”

“Who’s joking?” His mouth was dry and his body ached and she was kissing him more, she tasted like salt and honey and her eyes were shut and it was cruel, he wanted her to be looking at him, he wanted to see those eyes while she gasped and clutched him and held him inside her body, her nails dragging down his back and her voice loud in his ear while he said —

“Stop.”

She stepped away, flushing red.

He laughed. It sounded strangled. “I didn’t mean — I didn’t mean _stop_ , I don’t _want_ to stop” (oh how very much he did not want to stop) “-- but we have to stop, or I won’t be able to stop, and — and ..."

She retreated further and hit the wall. The light crawled up her legs and ended below her waist; it changed the darkness and changed the light, it put shadow where it did most good. Traitorous candle. And the septons said light was of the gods, goodness and honor? What fools they were. There was nothing holy in what he wanted to do. 

Jaime swallowed, hard.

Brienne said: "You should leave."

“Then I would be even further from you, and I dislike that idea now. I changed my mind. You come back and touch me more. Or let me touch you.” Both, why not both?

“You keep your distance, ser. I won the last time we fought and I doubt the odds have improved in your favor.”

“Heartless wench. Come and beg forgiveness from a seat in my lap.” Or maybe she would let him sit in hers. Whatever. As long as she was begging, what did it matter, what did anything matter? He licked his mouth, and yes that was her, yes. _The maiden fair,_ he remembered, _with golden honey._

The song hadn’t mentioned anything about salt: but that was his Brienne. _Mine_. “Don’t you trust me?”

Silence.

 _Honor_ , she’d said, and _propriety_. She wasn't talking about his damned cloak or his vows in the Guard; she meant _herself,_ she'd told him to leave because she wanted him to stay ... "You think i'll hurt you, Brienne? Or is it yourself you distrust?" No reply. "You knew why I closed the door," he said, and "Very well," he said. She'd told him to leave. He should do it now, while he still had the ability to walk.

So he stood and went to the corner and blew out the light.

He heard Brienne stand, the loose reeds squeaking under her feet. “Are you going?”

He didn’t answer.

The moon was risen and full, but she only served her fellow maid, shining in his face and showing damnably little of Brienne. “You’re going? Jaime? Wait.”

His blood ran high. "Do you hear the ocean?" he said: and she kissed him --

\-- and pulled his tunic up and ran her hands around his waist and stepped that half-step nearer, so they were barely apart —

and all thought stopped altogether.

His eyes adjusted, more or less. His voice did not. Somewhere he’d dropped half an octave and swallowed a fistful of gravel and become a peasant besides, because all he could do was beg for more. She let him slowly drag his hand upwards (“Cold!” she’d gasped, and “Not for long,” said Jaime), and she did not complain when he moved his hand from her breast or when he slid it up her shift where she was warm and damp and open, but when he rubbed very gently, she bit him.

“Stop that. Don’t.”

Oh dear gods, old and new, was she _mad?_ It was far too late to stop. “Must I? Really? You’re so ready.” He didn’t _need_ to go inside her (he told himself), this was fine, he would be _fine_ — but he would have her on his hand, wet on his fingers, her voice in his ear, how often he’d wondered how she would sound, like she was fighting, yes, that full-body movement —

She was still touching him. It wasn’t fair. “You have to stop.”

“No. I won’t. I like it there and you like it too, Jaime Lannister. You’re making the softest little sounds, ...”

 _Brienne_. “Yes. I like it. Like you. I like you.” He cleared his throat. “I like you so much that if you don’t move, if you don’t move away from me _quite soon,_ I am going to …” How had Tyrion phrased it? "I will embarrass myself and disappoint my lady."

“You don’t understand. You can’t, yet, before we—“ she gulped. “I _want_ to. And I don’t know — that is, I _know_ perfectly well, it’s only that I haven’t — and it’s so _dark_ , Jaime. I — I am suddenly sorry you blew out the light.”

He would be stupid to protest. It would be the most shortsighted thing he had ever done in a long, stupidly impatient life. But she deserved silk, she deserved velvet with a pile so deep his fingers disappeared in the softness, _oh_ he should not be thinking about his fingers like that. Not now. Not when everything in the world was her body. 

A fool to the end, he said: _"Here?_ In a filthy cell? Are you certain? We could ...”

They could -- what? Should he take her to his own bed? There was no surer way to make sure she died. He could imagine what Cersei might do, and Cersei had a much better imagination.

But _here?_

He couldn't.

"Brienne -- there must be a way to my rooms ... "

“Fine sheets and carved golden lions? I don’t care about that. I want ...”

”I can feel what you want.”

"Then give it to me."

_I can light_ _the candle, if you need it._

 _No_.

This, he still knew how to do.

_Slow down. There are matters to take in hand._ Like her hips, her legs. He pushed her down. There was a time for _this_ way and a time for _that_ way but he wanted to be careful, careful, and also he did not want to stop kissing her ever. 

"Jaime?"

"Yes. Wait."

She waited, and gasped under him -- once, twice -- and he did too, it felt like _light,_ like the candle catching the spark, he wasn't expecting -- 

He moved and she made that noise again, reaching up for him. _Mine_ he told her, told himself, because _yes_ he was ashamed of so much but not her and this, not her. Not tonight. He shifted weight to his useless arm — sometimes he really did miss his hand — and he was able to touch her then. Face, mouth, breast. Her hands were clenched. He tugged one open and wound his fingers between hers. She shuddered. Yes. _Brienne._

Her sounds were different now. Her body was different around him. “Brienne?”

She pulled him down, shifting where they were together and kissing open his mouth; and Jaime could swear the room was filled with stars, a million tiny points of flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretend there isn't a chamber pot three feet away during this scene. i sure did!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been kissed plenty, she said. None of it was any good.
> 
> If you don’t like it, he told her, severe, it wasn’t done properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written ??8?? - 13 July, 2019  
> in fever & infection.  
> i don’t write well when i’m sick.

Of course it didn’t happen that way.

Jaime woke from a hard sleep to find he'd wet the pillow with spittle and wet the sheets below with lust. 

The dream was still on him, tangled between his legs and hot along his skin. He'd been dreaming of ... _Brienne?_ Prickly Brienne. She'd held him in her arms and made the sounds of a woman who knows what she wants, and — and even that was fragmenting away from him.

The rushes. Her body. Light.

He shivered.

 _No,_ pushing aside the blankets -- the sheets would need to be changed -- he didn't _like_ it, he didn't want to dream about Brienne and finish in his sleep like a child, he didn't like any of this (her face in the darkness; her eyes as she'd blown out the candle) -- no, no. He didn’t want it.

And this whole problem was Cersei's fault. He'd never wanted to fill the wench until Cersei mentioned it.

She had called Brienne his whore and then she had gone down on her knees and ... but _that_ thought wasn't comfortable, either. 

He used to be comfortable. When had that changed? _My hand_ he thought, automatically: but no. When he was locked up?

When he'd killed a man, the first time. When he'd murdered the king rather than allow the city to burn green.

When he lost the tourney, unhorsed by a trick ... 

Or when Myrcella went to Dorne to rot among strangers. They had been close, as close as a girl should be to her _uncle_. She was clever and kind, the best parts of himself magnified, and he did not think she would grow out of it, as Cersei hoped; there was nothing of blood-lust in her.

The gods saved all that for his eldest.

When the tales of cats and flies and knives came back, Jaime shook his head. _No more sacrifices to curiosity. There are plenty of dead things in the world, aren’t there? Let Joff pick_ _apart some of them._

_That is not what he wants._

_I know very well what he wants,_ Jaime said. _I know him._

Wine burned as it came back up, he’d forgotten that. It dripped out of his nose.

He cleaned his mouth and washed his face and crawled back into bed to rest again.

When night fell the city slept, except for sailors, soldiers and whores.

Jaime, not a sailor, left his rooms. 

He went whistling down the hall

nodded at the guard instead of beating him bloody

tapped on her cell door — gently knocked — called her name.

No answer. “Brienne, Maid of Tarth?”

Nothing.

His chest constricted. _Cersei, no._ “Wench, I have come to apologize —“

No, he hadn’t either.

“I came to say that _you_ were in the wrong, and you should apologize to me. _Brienne_. I demand the chance to argue with you more.”

Nothing. Not a whisper, not a rustle.

Either she was not there, or -- 

He stepped back from the door, wishing it were open, and went to find that pock-faced fool who called himself a guard.

“What happened to her?”

The guard flinched.

It seemed an overreaction. Jaime thought he was speaking quite gently, considering. “Is she in the cell?"

"No, ser."

"Did you see her leave?”

“No, ser.”

Then how did the boy know Brienne wasn't inside? He must speak to the master about the quality of his newer employees. "Did anyone else come in to see her?"

"Only ser Loras. He spoke a little while and left. Yesterday it was, ser."

"Alright. Thank you." Jaime smiled. "What is your name, lad?"

"Aris, my lord."

"This is what will happen. I am going to stay here for the next ... ten minutes, let's say. You are going to find out what happened to the maid of fucking Tarth, and you are going to be very quick about it, because I promise you that you will lose a finger for every minute that you are late returning to me. If you are later than that -- if you don't return, Aris -- you will lose both hands and your feet besides."

"My lord?"

"Better run," said Jaime.

It didn't need more than that. _See?_ he wanted to tell Cersei. _I haven't changed at all._ He could still frighten the snot out of children, even with only one hand.

He sat down against the wall and watched the moon creep over the floor.

  
The sky was dark and the stars were hidden, when he went outside to the stables some time later. Only the silver moon lit the world, looking as stiffly painted as any he’d ever seen hung over a stage.

Brienne was girding and tensioning the saddle, focused. He was able to get quite near to her, well within the range of a greatsword. “Where are your instincts, wench? I could have gutted you five times.”

She replied without turning. “You can try five times and lose five times, if you’d like. Why are you here?”

“It’s dark.”

“It’s night-time. It gets dark in the night.”

Prickly Brienne, indeed. He greeted the mare with due courtesy to a lady; she sighed a horsey sigh at him. "I went to your cell, you know." He dug into the trimmed mane. "Do you like that, lass?"

Neither responded. He was not doing well with women tonight.

Jaime said, mostly to the horse: “I also wanted some conversation. If you'd still speak to me after I was ... after I left last time.”

Brienne stopped, turning to face him. “No. I was the rude one last time we spoke. Presumptuous. It was shameful and wrong to give credence to these rumors, to repeat them to you ...”

“Not rumors.”

She shook her head, stroking along the mare's back. “There are different kinds of rumors. Even true things can be spoken slant. People envy your position, the honor of guarding the King ...”

Yes. The great honor of looking at his own son, his _children_ , and never acknowledging them. He was sore and sick of that type of gift. “You don’t know me.”

"I know you well enough to know you are a good man.” Stubborn.

“No. I’m not. One day I'll tell you about all the things I've done and the things I've wanted to do. Things I shouldn’t want.” Including people. Certain people. He deliberately changed his tone to one of cheerful reminiscing. “Do you know, I’ve never even kissed anyone but Cersei? Such a shame, I think sometimes. One day all my youth will be gone and then all I’ll have are memories of girls I didn’t kiss.” He sighed. “Oh, what a piece of work is man.”

She made a face. “Kissing is overrated.”

Jaime smiled. "Proof you haven't done it properly." This was his old footing again, this was _swordsplay_ , and he knew his opponent very well. Hadn't they done this before?

"There isn't much complication to it."

”You have been kissed, then? By more than one person? Because it's very possible he was an outlier. A fluke. Or was it a _she?_ I've heard tales about what you high-born ladies do with your bedfellows.”

The reply was an unladylike snort.

As if the thought had only occurred to him: “The solution to our problems might well be at hand. I have it on good authority that I am an excellent candidate, nigh _unparalleled_ in the field. That would do nicely for your comparisons. As for me ... you are not Cersei.”

“If that is your only requirement, you have many more enticing options.” _Step, step, crossstep._ They were circling like birds _._

“None of them are here, are they? It will do no harm, you know. You won't get big with child from a single kiss. You can even slap me across the face afterwards if you want.” He considered the weight of her sword arm. “Not backhand.”

“I don’t _want_ to hit you!” she snapped, sounding as though she did. Her face was flushed; it wasn’t much of a parry.

“Maybe you’ll want to hit me after I kiss you.”

“If you do, I will cut you open and leave you to the dogs and crows to eat.” She had gone back to hiding her face, pretending to check straps she had already adjusted twice over. “I don’t trust you.”

A hit. A very palpable hit. Had he dropped his guard, or did she slip past? “We’ve slept together — _slept_ — for weeks on end. I saved your life, more than once if you recall. We fucking _bathed_ together —“

“I did _not_ bathe with you.”

“Oh, was that some other tall blonde swordswoman? If I were the sort to abuse a lady, I would have done it already.”

“You could have tried,” growled the wench. “And what do you call this? Harassing me, arguing with me--"

“I am not!"

“-- when I’ve _told_ you to stop. More than once."

Jaime stood still. "You did say that. I'm sorry." You could kill a man with a tourney sword, he’d seen it done. _Only a bruise_ said the maester, _but a deep one. He must rest._ So they put him to bed with a cup of dreamwine and a watcher, and in the night while the watcher slept, the man went beyond them all. 

She said: “An honorable man doesn’t need to apologize.”

“Well. Now you know the truth. I am excellent at kissing and I have absolutely no honor.”

She smiled at that, she smiled _at him,_ and it was so beautiful that his heart stopped and his mind stopped and he stepped forward to take her into his arms.

The lady froze -- Jaime drew back -- and Brienne ducked away, wrapping her arms around herself.

Her eyes were huge, ice-blue. “You _are_ cruel. You mock me ..."

“No.”

“Why would you do that?”

Because he was not good. Because ... “I wanted to.”

“Wanted to — why? You think because you are a man and a lord and so wealthy and so beautiful, that you can just ... do anything? Is hurting people some right they hand out to men alone? You think it’s funny, to laugh at me. I know you do. To watch the Beauty fall --"

She stopped. Cleared her throat. “Fine. You want me? Take me. If you can." And she put a hand on her sword.

Jaime thought he had been gutted quite enough for an evening. "I have wanted you for a long time. Since ...”

Brienne shook her head. "You lie."

"Not about this."

 _When_ did it start? Not with that dreadful Tully woman, not then. Maybe when he stole his cousin's sword to kill her with, and she beat him and bested him and nearly drowned him besides.

When she called him a coward.

When he couldn’t cut his food, one-handed, and she jabbed it without even looking to help.

 _Stop whining,_ she’d told him. _You complain too much._

She said: “You should leave me alone. I told you to leave me alone.” Soft.

“You did not. And I won’t. Where are you going, anyway, in the middle of the night? Stealing away like a thief, Brienne, it’s very bad manners, someone might get the wrong idea about you.”

“North. I’m headed north. Or south, along the coast. I made a vow —“

“Not that bloody shit again. Lady Stark is dead and so are her daughters and what are you _thinking_ , who cares about vows—“

She reached for him, found him, kissed him.

 _Brienne_. Jaime shut his eyes. 

Please let this be real. _Please._ Oh she was soft and her mouth was open and she was warm, so warm, she held onto him like she couldn't let him move away and if this were another dream he was going to ... going to ... 

"Jaime?"

"This was a terrible idea.” For one thing, all the blood was gone from his head. And now he would never stop dreaming of her.

She sniffed. “I hate you."

“Mmm. For beginning it? or for stopping it?"

She didn't answer.

He laughed. "That tight hot feeling is what you call _honor_. Remember that the next time you decide to make a stupid vow." He let go of her -- when had he held on? -- and winced. Moving was going to be painful for a while.

“You are a hateful human. And you’re wasting my time. I need to leave.”

“Not yet. I have something to give you — oh, keep your eyes in your head, it’s not that. This is a gift. Tie your horse and come on.” He started off for his rooms, moving rather slowly, knowing she would follow.

“What is it?”

“Something I can’t make proper use of anymore. Step along lively, wench. Don’t dawdle. You’re in a dreadful hurry, remember?”

“Don’t call me that. My name is—”

“ _Brienne_. Yes. I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the guard was late.

**Author's Note:**

> most of this was written in Target. on the phone.  
> if i collided with you, i am sorry.


End file.
